


Make the Change

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: (Mickey needs to not drink tequila tbh), Clubbing, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Or at least Attempted Clubbing, Rimming, Shower Sex, Slurs, Smut, Vomiting, accidental date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey needs another drink. He needs another three drinks. The whole point of the tequila was to make this easy. Relax him. But it’s not working. At least, not yet.</p><p>But he fucking wants this. Needs it. And now—now he can have it.</p><p>(Mickey's attempt at getting laid doesn't go quite according to plan. At first.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BeckyHarvey29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeckyHarvey29/gifts).



> The very happiest of birthdays to my lovely, lovely Becky! <3 I hope you enjoy this birthday porn, even though it failed at being Christmas fic. It still has other things that should be of interest, I hope!

Mickey flings his arm out, slipping a little on the slushy sidewalk. The lights of the traffic are blurring all over the place. He squints. Yellow, yellow, yellow, shit, c’mon . . .

The squeal of the brakes tips him off that a cab actually pulled over for him. Might be a cab. Maybe. He doesn’t actually look, just yanks the door open and slides inside the backseat.

The warmth of the car and the quiet murmur of the radio wash over him, and he tips his head back, eyes closed, basking in it.

“Where to?” the driver asks after a second. Mickey squints his eyes open, then manages to sit up, smushing his face against the glass that separates them.

“Listen,” he says, “this is an important night, OK?”

“ . . . Five days before Christmas?” the driver asks doubtfully.

“No!” Mickey says. “I mean, yeah, but . . . no. Listen. This is an important night for me, OK? So you’re gonna help me out.”

“Sure thing,” the driver says patiently. “Just tell me where.”

Mickey fishes around in his pocket and brings out the roll of cash he got earlier. He peels off twenty after twenty ($60, $80, $100) and sticks it through the little window.

“Uh . . . ,” the driver says. “Where exactly—”

“Boystown,” Mickey says. “You’re gonna drive me to Boystown and drop me off at a bar. And you’re gonna stay outside until I come out.” He stops, and then laughs. “Come out,” he mutters to himself.

“Look, man, I don’t think—” the driver starts.

“Relax,” Mickey snaps. “I just want to you wait outside, all right? So that when I come out, we can just go, all right?”

“Yeah,” the driver says slowly. “OK. That should be fine. Just, uh, try not to throw up in the back of the cab, all right? It’s a fucking pain to clean up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mickey mumbles. “You drive, I’ll deal with that.” He closes his eyes again. The murmur of voices from the radio is soothing, and the movement of the cab lulls him into a doze. He feels warm—and incredibly fucking horny.

Mickey cracks an eye, looking at the driver in the rearview mirror. The guy is staring straight forward, focused on the street in front of them. He’s never going to notice. Mickey presses the heel of his hand against the front of his jeans, right where he’s starting to get hard, and then pushes his hips up. Just a little. Just enough. The pleasure of it rolls through him, and he lets out a quiet moan.

_Fuck._

He opens his eyes and looks at the rearview mirror again. The cab driver is looking at him, but as soon as Mickey meets his eyes, he looks away.

“Jesus,” Mickey hears the guy mutter. A part of him wants to shrivel up and die at being caught. Wants to jump out of the cab and make a run for it.

Another part of him is fucking thrilled. The tequila shots he did at the last bar agree.

The cab pulls over, and for a sick second, Mickey thinks the guy’s going to tell him to get out. Which would be _bullshit_. It’s not like he whipped his cock out or anything. He didn’t do anything. Mickey leans forward, arm up against the glass, ready to argue.

“We’re here,” the cab driver says. “The meter’s running.”

Mickey opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll, uh—I’ll be right back,” Mickey mutters.

“I’ll be right here,” the driver says.

Mickey swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and fumbles for the door handle. For a second he thinks the cab driver locked him in or something. Then he finally gets it open, and stumbles onto the sidewalk. His breath billows out in front of him, but he doesn’t feel the cold.

Mickey steadies himself, leaning against the side of the cab. Then he taps on the passenger side window. The driver leans over to look at him, and Mickey gives him the finger. _Screw you, prick._ Of course, now the guy’s probably going to take Mickey’s money and bolt. But whatever. Worth it.

The club is dark, but the flashing lights and the pounding music give him an instant headache. He needs another drink. He needs another three drinks. The whole point of the tequila was to make this easy. Relax him. But it’s not working. At least, not yet.

But he fucking wants this. Needs it. And now—now he can have it.

The bar, at least, is safe enough. He leans against it, trying to not meet anyone’s eyes, or stare too much. The dancers and the bartenders are mostly ripped, sweaty guys who look like they just walked out of a porn mag, and the whole fucking thing is making Mickey’s heart pound too hard in his chest. Not in a good way.

He taps his fingers on the bar and leans forward, trying to catch the eye of one of the bartenders—they’re easy to spot, sparkly fucking shirts—but they won’t fucking look at him.

He looks OK, though. He’s dressed up or whatever. He knows he looks OK.

Does he?

This was a stupid fucking idea. This was the stupidest fucking idea he’s ever had, and that’s saying something. Mickey starts to back away from the bar, flinching every time he bumps into someone. His stomach is lurching. Why is he even here, why the fuck . . .

“Hey there, sweet stuff,” someone behind him says. “Can I get you a—”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, shoving blindly past the guy. There’s a sign on the back wall for the bathrooms. He stumbles inside, then manages to jerk open the door for one of the stalls, and ends up on his knees in front of the toilet. His stomach writhes, and he coughs up all the tequila and then some. His throat burns.

He stays there for a minute, panting hard. Then he spits, clearing his mouth as much as he can. Breathes steadily, in and out. It’s the only sound in the bathroom, besides the throb of his heartbeat in his ears, finally slowing down.

The tiles are cold and hard under his knees, and suddenly all he wants is to be back in the cab, fifteen minutes ago, warm and pleasantly turned on, the murmur of the radio in his ears, the heavy weight of the driver’s eyes on him.

Screw this shit. This place and its glittery assholes can go to hell.

He spits again, and slowly climbs to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He goes to the sink and runs the water, cupping his hand and rinsing out his mouth. It’s lukewarm and tastes metallic, but it’s betters than nothing.

Turning off the tap, Mickey drags his eyes up to the mirror. The room is mostly dark, and he can barely make out his face. His eyes are too wide, and he rubs them, trying to look normal. He glances at his shirt— _dark blue, brings out your eyes,_ a voice in his head says, and he crushes it down—and at his jeans, the nicest ones he has.

What the fuck had he been thinking? Who the fuck does he think he is? _Fag,_ a different voice whispers. _Fucking fag._

He blows out a breath, his heart speeding up again, panic building in his gut. He was crazy to think he could do it like this. Even though . . . even though . . .

The door behind him opens, spilling light and sound into the room, and a skinny blond guy in a tight T-shirt comes in, heading for the urinals.

Mickey shoves his way out the door and across the dance floor as fast as he can, and then he’s back outside again. The cold air hits him like a wet slap to the face, but it wakes him up. Feels good. Clean.

He’s fully expecting the cab will be gone, but it’s not. The cab driver is leaning against the passenger door, smoking. He takes a last drag and flicks it away when he sees Mickey, then he heads around the front of the car to get back inside.

“That was kinda quick,” Mickey hears him mutter. Asshole. Without thinking, Mickey yanks the passenger door open and slides in.

The cab driver turns to face him, surprised. “What—”

“Just fucking drive,” Mickey says harshly.

“Uh, to another club, or—”

“Don’t fucking care,” Mickey says. “Just go.”

The driver is shaking his head, but he turns the key in the ignition. “C’mon, man,” he says. “Striking out at one place doesn’t mean—”

“Please,” says Mickey. “Please, just shut the fuck up.” He closes his eyes and leans back against the seat behind him.

The driver doesn’t say anything else. Just turns the radio up and pulls away from the curb.

It’s fucking stupid, but Mickey can’t help the way his muscles start to relax again, back in the warm quiet darkness of the cab. He doesn’t even give a shit where they’re going. He can hear the driver mutter under his breath from time to time as someone cuts them off, or when they hit a red light, but it’s the same low hum as the radio. Easy to tune out, and just drift quietly.

When the cab finally stops, Mickey slowly opens his eyes. To his surprise, the driver kills the engine, then turns to look at him. Mickey stares blearily out the windshield at the red-and-blue neon “24 Hours” sign in front of them.

“My shift’s over,” the driver says. “I’ve got a hundred bucks and nowhere to take you. Gonna come get some food with me or what?”

Mickey stares at him, confused. The cab driver raises his eyebrows, and then shrugs. “Stay in here if you want to. Just remember what I said about throwing up.” He gets out, and after a few seconds, Mickey follows.

The diner is too bright, but at least it’s mostly empty. The dinner crowd is long gone, and the bar crawlers aren’t here yet. The cab driver waves at a waitress who’s chatting to someone down at the far end, then slides into a booth. Looks like he’s a regular.

“Need a menu?” he asks Mickey, who shakes his head then slowly sits down across from him.

“The burgers are awesome,” the driver continues. “The fries aren’t bad, but I’d definitely go for the onion rings.”

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey says.

“Could ask you the same,” the guy says, suddenly leaning across the table. His eyes are intense, green. Mickey stares back at him for a second, then shakes his head and starts to get up.

“Fuck this,” he says. “Don’t know why the hell I even—” The cab driver’s hand is warm on his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. Not pulling, just holding him there. “Get your fucking hands off me,” Mickey says quietly, and the guy drops his arm instantly.

“I’m sorry,” the cab driver says. “Don’t go, OK? You just seemed like you needed to sober up, get some food in you. And you really overpaid me for the ten minutes we were at that place. So, let me get you a burger or something, all right? No big deal.”

It’s fucking miserable outside, cold and slushy. His stomach has settled, and he’s suddenly starving. Didn’t have dinner. Had he had anything before that? A sandwich, a bowl of cereal? He’d gotten the call around noon, and after that—

Mickey closes his eyes for a second, and takes a breath. He opens them again and sees the waitress heading their way, giving him an uncertain look.

“C’mon, man,” the driver says. “It’ll be worth it, I promise. The onion rings alone.”

Slowly, Mickey sits back down. “I fucking hate onions,” he says, mostly just for the hell of it.

“Then never mind,” the driver says. “You better just go.”

Mickey looks up at him. The guy has a little smile on his face. He’s fucking teasing him. What the fuck.

“Ian, how’s it going?” the waitress says when she gets to their table. There’s a pad and a pencil in her apron, but she doesn’t get them out. “Chicken sandwich and onion rings, right?” Her eyes are fixed curiously on Mickey, flicking up and down, studying him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Definitely,” Ian says, all friendly and smiling. “And two waters, and a coffee for this guy.” He looks at Mickey. “How do you want it?”

“Just sugar,” Mickey says automatically. “And, uh, I’ll have the same. Chicken and whatever.”

“You got it,” the waitress says. “Be out in a few.” She gives Mickey one more look, eyebrows raised, then heads back to drop off their order.

Mickey stares down at the speckled tabletop. There’s a stray sugar packet in front of him, and he pushes it from side to side. Finally, the silence is too much, and he looks up at Ian, who’s still staring at him with a half smile on his face.

“What?” Mickey says. “Something about this fucking funny to you?” He glares, and Ian looks taken aback.

“No,” he says. “You’re just . . .” He stops and coughs a little. “Never mind.”

Mickey lets out an annoyed breath, but it’s clear the moment to leave is gone. Anyway, it’s warm in here. And they’ve got food coming. He satisfies himself by cracking his knuckles, and sees Ian’s eyes flick across them, reading the tattoos. That gets an eyebrow raise, but Ian doesn’t seem worried or intimidated.

“What’s your name?” he asks. Mickey considers lying, but what’s the point? He’s got nothing to hide. Not anymore.

“Mickey.”

Another few seconds of awkward silence. “So,” Ian says. “You, uh, said tonight was something special. What’s the big occasion?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows for a second. But hey, fuck it, right? That’s what tonight is all about. “My dad died,” he says bluntly, and picks the sugar packet up again, bending it one way, and then the other.

“Oh,” Ian says. “I’m sorry?” He doesn’t sound sure.

“No,” Mickey says. “No. He was, uh.” He laughs a little, shakes his head. “He would have fucking murdered me if he knew I was—” He swallows. No wonder he couldn’t go through with it at that place. If he can’t even say it.

“Got it,” Ian says. “So this was—”

“A fuck-you to that dead fucking bastard,” Mickey says.

“Right,” Ian says. “Then, uh, what happened at the club? If you don’t mind me asking.”

He should mind. He should.

He doesn’t.

“Couldn’t do it,” he says, and shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—” Fuck, why the fuck did he say that. “I have. It’s just, not like that. Not so—” He gestures, not sure how to put it.

“Open?” Ian offers.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “It was just . . .” He laughs again. “Like being in a fucking porno or something, you know? Like, that sounds like a good thing, but—”

“No,” Ian says, and his voice is more stern than Mickey was expecting. “It doesn’t. Because it’s not real.”

“Exactly,” Mickey says, and when he looks up this time, Ian’s staring at him with the weirdest look on his face. Like he’s seeing something for the first time. Mickey blinks, and Ian looks away.

“Food should be out in a minute,” Ian says casually, and Mickey’s head is spinning from how fast the conversation changed. Like that weird moment hadn’t even happened. But hey, he can roll with it.

“Fucking starving,” Mickey says. Then they sit in silence again for a minute.

“So,” Mickey finally says. “You, uh, been driving cabs a long time?” His ears burn. What a stupid fucking question. He’s never been on a date, but if he ever did, this is just the kind of stupid shit he would hate about it. The whole “getting to know you” routine.

“Couple of years,” Ian says. He seems to feel the awkwardness as well, and jumps on Mickey’s dumb question like it’s a goddamn life preserver. “It’s better pay than you’d think, especially on the weekends. You can get twenty fares in a shift if you don’t have to do any airport runs. If you figure about two shifts in an hour, then you’re making—”

He stops. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I, uh, sometimes just run my mouth about stupid shit.”

“It’s cool,” Mickey says. “Sounds like a good gig. Maybe I should look into it.”

“Helps if you like being around people,” Ian says, and Mickey laughs.

“Then never mind.”

Ian grins at him, and it lights up his whole fucking face. Mickey feels his stomach do a weird little flip.

“Two chicken sandwiches with onion rings, two waters, cup of coffee,” the waitress announces, sliding it all in front of them. The breaded chicken is still steaming on the buns, and the onion rings are huge.

They dig in, and Mickey stops for a swig of his coffee. “I wasn’t that drunk, you know. Probably be up all night with this.”

“Hope so,” Ian says casually, and when Mickey looks up at him, his smile has an edge. Mickey’s stomach full-on drops this time, and he doesn’t know what to say. Is Ian saying—?

“What do you do? As a job?” Ian says abruptly, and Mickey tries to put it out of his head. Imagining stupid shit. Just because he can be out now if he wants, doesn’t mean every guy on the planet wants a piece of him. Jesus, Milkovich.

“Bunch of different stuff,” Mickey evades automatically. “Uh, stuff for my dad, mostly.” He grimaces. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.”

“Got it,” Ian says right away. “Any siblings?”

“Couple of brothers, my sister, Mandy,” Mickey says. “That’s all I know about, anyway.”

Ian makes a wry face. “Yeah, I’ve got five, and I’m always kind of expecting more to show up out of the woodwork someday.”

“Five? Jesus,” Mickey says. “No wonder you’re driving cabs instead of going to school or some shit.”

Ian nods in agreement. “It definitely helps,” he says. “Was never too great at school, anyway.”

Mickey laughs. “Shit, man, I didn’t even finish. Made it halfway through freshman year before I split.”

The meal goes by faster than he would have thought. Mickey doesn’t even taste the onion rings, or the sandwich, they’re so busy talking. When they’re done, Ian leaves one of the twenties from before, and Mickey digs around in his pocket and comes up with a five for the tip.

He follows Ian outside, and they get back into the cab. It’s cold enough their breath is fogging up the windows, so they sit idling in the parking lot for a few minutes, letting the car warm up.

“I can drop you off wherever you want,” Ian says, putting the car in gear. “You’ve still got, like, four fares, even with the food.”

Mickey’s in no real hurry to get home tonight, back to his father’s house. He wonders if that’s part of the reason he wanted to hook up with someone tonight in the first place. Give him somewhere else to sleep. He swallows. “Just take me wherever you’re going and I’ll get on the train or a bus or something.”

“OK,” Ian says, and it’s maybe kind of weird that he gave up on his offer of a ride without a fight, Mickey thinks, considering the fact the guy’s been acting like they’re best buds or something. But whatever. Ian doesn’t owe him shit. At this point, Mickey owes Ian, if anything.

Ian cranks the radio up this time, humming along to some classic rock song Mickey’s never even heard. It’s kind of annoying. Maybe kind of nice, too.

He stares out the window as they zip past the houses, people’s TVs flashing, warm lights glowing in all the living rooms, kitchens, bedrooms . . .

Ian parks on the street next to a big apartment building, with a water-stained sign outside. Windsor Towers. Doesn’t look as fancy as the name, that’s for sure. Mickey stares at it for a second. The train probably isn’t running anymore. Maybe there’s a bus somewhere around he can take. He’s going to have to, because in a minute, Ian’s going to get out of the cab, and Mickey will have to go, too. It’s cold outside. It’s so fucking cold.

Casually, like it’s something that it makes sense for him to be doing, Ian reaches out and rubs the knuckles of his right hand along the inside seam of Mickey’s jeans. First right above his knee at first, then slowly higher. Mickey’s frozen in place, watching Ian’s hand move slowly up and down. He doesn’t know why Ian’s doing it. But he knows he doesn’t want to do anything that might make it stop.

Mickey cock starts to harden. His first instinct is to try hide it, to keep Ian from seeing. But that’s not right, is it? Because Ian . . . Ian wants that to happen. Doesn’t he?

Mickey lets out a shaky breath, and Ian’s hand starts to slow down, until his knuckles are just barely touching the inside of Mickey’s leg. Then his hand is moving, and he presses his palm gently against Mickey’s cock.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers. He can’t stop himself.

“Do you want to come up?” Ian says quietly, and Mickey finally manages to look at him.

Ian looks wide-eyed and nervous. Almost as nervous as Mickey feels. His eyes flick down to Mickey’s mouth, and then back up.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. It comes out weird, his mouth is so dry. He swallows, tries again. “Yeah.”

 

Mickey follows Ian up three flights of stairs, not paying attention, his mind going crazy. Ian’s hand on him, in the car. The shaky breath he’d let out when Mickey said yes. His long fingers, wrapped around Mickey’s wrist back in the diner, wrapped around Mickey’s cock . . .

They stop in front of a door in an empty hallway. Ian starts fumbling for his keys, and Mickey can’t take it. He steps up behind Ian and wraps an arm around his waist, then he buries his face against the back of Ian’s neck and drags his lips against Ian’s warm skin. Presses a kiss there—the gayest thing he’s ever done, probably, and it feels so fucking good.

Ian stops trying to open the door and just leans back, tipping his head so his neck is bare and open for Mickey’s mouth. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Oh my god.”

Finally, the door’s open, and they push their way inside, shedding their coats. Ian shuts the door behind them, and then turns around, leaning back against the wall and tugging Mickey forward, until their mouths are almost touching. Mickey rests one hand against Ian’s chest, and grabs his waist with the other, pulling him forward until their bodies are close and warm. Ian’s hard, too.

Mickey’s known what he likes for a while now, but the way his legs spread open, the ache inside him, takes him by surprise. He wants it. Needs it. Inside him. He’s fucking hungry for it.

Overwhelmed by it, he leans forward and presses their mouths together. Ian’s opens under his, slick and hot, his tongue rubbing against Mickey’s, and the soft sound of their lips moving together, again and again.

“C’mon,” Ian says, pulling away, his forehead tipped against Mickey’s. He’s breathing hard. “Bathroom.”

“Huh?” Mickey says, and Ian laughs.

He takes Mickey’s hand, leading him down the dark hall. He doesn’t turn on the light in the tiny bathroom, but the streetlight outside spills in enough that Mickey can see. They both strip, moving fast. Ian turns on the water, steam rising, then grabs Mickey by the back of the neck and kisses him again, hot and urgent. They both fit in the shower, but without much room to spare. Mickey’s mostly under the spray, and Ian is right behind him, his breath on Mickey’s neck, his arm wrapping around Mickey from behind and pulling him in. Ian’s dick pushes up against Mickey’s ass. The water is running down his chest, hot and wet around his dick as Ian reaches around and rubs his cock a few times. Mickey can feel himself jerking under Ian’s touch, and he can’t stop the moan that slips out. Ian squeezes him, like a reward, then lets go. Both his hands are behind Mickey now, cupping his ass. His thumbs rub lingering circles against each cheek, and his head is tipped down, like he’s staring.

“What are you doin’?” Mickey asks after a few seconds.

“Nothing,” Ian says. “Just admiring the view.”

Mickey groans. “Christ, don’t just look at it,” he says, and Ian laughs, planting a kiss on Mickey’s shoulder blade. Then he slides his thumbs farther down, and pulls Mickey’s ass open, hot water trickling down.

“Holy _fuck_.” Mickey leans forward, one hand braced against the tiles in front of him, and the other wrapped around his dick, trying not to come.

There’s a bar of soap on the edge of the tub, and Ian slicks his hand up, then presses two fingers between Mickey’s cheeks, rubbing and pressing gently. It’s fucking filthy, how good it feels for Ian to touch him there. Mickey leans his forehead against his arm and breathes out, shaky.

“Good?” Ian asks, his lips moving against Mickey’s neck.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, and pushes his hips back a little, grinding into Ian’s touch.

“Can I eat you out?” Ian whispers.

Mickey whimpers and just about fucking loses it right there.

“God, fuck yes,” he says. “I don’t—” He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to say anymore. So he just shuts up.

Ian cups his hand in front of them, rinsing it off under the spray, then runs his fingers against Mickey one more time, until he’s completely clean. Then he shuts off the water, pulls Mickey out of the bathroom, and leads him across the hall.

The bed isn’t made, but the sheets feel clean and warm against Mickey’s damp skin as Ian guides him onto it facedown, his legs bent under him and his head resting on his arms. His ass is pushed out behind him, open to Ian’s touch as he gently pulls his cheeks apart again with one hand and then presses an openmouthed kiss right between them. Ian’s tongue is burning hot, and circles Mickey’s hole softly a few times before pressing hard against him. Nudging. Trying to get inside. Mickey wants him inside. He relaxes against the heat and the smooth slide of Ian’s tongue, now lapping against him in wider strokes.

There’s a soft, wet sound behind him. Ian’s jerking himself off with his free hand, his hips pushing against the bed over and over again, as he presses his tongue into Mickey at the same time. Fucking Mickey gently, and fucking his fist harder.

Ian lifts his head for a second. “Gonna fuck you so hard,” he says, breathless. “Not yet. Not tonight. But shit, it’s gonna be good.”

Mickey pants into the pillow under his face, feeling his body tighten up with excitement at the thought: Ian’s dick working inside him, deeper and harder than anything he’s ever had. “Please,” he says. “Fuck, Ian, _please_.” Ian moans and works himself faster, leaning back down to lick into Mickey again. Mickey reaches down for his cock, hard and leaking, trapped between his stomach and the bed, and wraps his hand around it the best he can. He tries to match Ian’s rhythm, and it builds and builds and builds inside him, his ass open and hungry, his cock pulsing with it.

“Gonna—” Mickey says, but before he can even finish the words, he’s coming, filling his hand up hot and wet. Ian presses one, two more kisses against him, then leans his forehead against Mickey’s lower back, his breath coming faster and faster as he pulls at himself. “Fuck,” he whispers, and then lets out a quiet sigh, his mouth open and hot against Mickey’s skin.

Mickey rolls over, shaky and loose-limbed, and tugs Ian up the bed until he’s spooned behind Mickey, his softening cock resting against Mickey’s back.

“You OK?” Ian says, his mouth close to Mickey’s ear.

Mickey doesn’t trust his voice right now, so he just nods.

Ian runs a hand up and down his side, and Mickey reaches down, trapping it with his own, and then pulls it around his waist. Ian takes the hint and snuggles closer, his knees behind Mickey’s, their bodies locked together, warm and tight. Then he reaches down and cover them with the blanket that had been pushed off to the side.

They lie quietly together for a few minutes, drifting. Ian’s breath is steady and soft. He might be asleep.

“Thank you,” Mickey says, so quiet he can barely hear it. Ian kisses his neck, sleepily.

Mickey closes his eyes and smiles. For the first time he can remember, he can’t wait for tomorrow.


End file.
